Weekend Wars
by andI'mstillinlove
Summary: Fight club meets even more anarchy and chaos. Teenagers, blood, lust, love, anarchy, violence without reason. An epic to the lost and angry souls. Soundtrack provided by MGMT
1. Evil S I yes to find a shore

You know those people you see at school? The ones with blackeyes and the busted lips, the legions of kids with casts and neck braces, the ranks of bruised bodies and sore muscles? Most of the time they're just results of BMXing accidents, or football plays gone wrong, even flying off a cliff skiing during winter break. This is _usually_ the case for these various assortments of injuries. That's what I thought anyways. In my school however, this phenomenon was caused by a different variety of "accidents". These "accidents" which brought in a new batch of injured and disfigured teenagers weekly did not(wink wink) take place in abandoned buildings, parking lots, and empty streets. They did not involve street gangs. They did not involve teenagers between the ages of 16 to 20 (even some 21's to 25's). They did not get caught and did not go public. If you're looking for a story that involves any or all of these characteristics, you have come to the wrong story, and I'd politely like to ask you to redirect your browser to a different story. Because this story is NOT about the Weekend Wars. This story is NOT about me falling in love with a Weekend Warrior lackey. This story is NOT about the dissolution of civilized life in California as we knew it. This story is none of these things. At least that's what they keep telling you about the situation that's happening in California, and sprouting up around the nation. They'd like to tell you it's contained. But it's too late for containment. It is far too late for anything.

---Note to all who read: "Spencer Carlin" "Ashley Davies" ect. Ect. Are altered names, those who were and are responsible for the riots occurring between June of 2009 to January of 2010 have submitted to helping annote and provide testimony within this document agreed only if all name changes that are requested were honoured.


	2. A Beast That Doesnt Quiver Anymore

--News Bulletin--

LA TIMES; Local News

::Recently two more youths (names undisclosed at this time) have been arrested in what the Chief Police of LAPD is terming "A mild threat to domestic security", brushing off once again the repeated offences that have been committed against and to multiple (though unknown) persons, and countless public and private residences. Graffiti, damage, and defacement and effacement have been occurring with wild rampancy and seemingly unorganized and unrelated targets. These attacks and seemingly "random" fistfights and brawls involve unknown numbers of teenagers (genders unspecified) are happening with increasing frequency and intensifying violence, the damage radius increasing exponentially as months pass. No official word on the position of the Governor, and no press conference has been held yet, though many outraged and victimized citizens call for an immediate raise to arms on this issue.- Christine Jackson.:: --LA Times; June 10th 2008.

"Well that's bullshit."

I glance up from my cereal, seeing my dad thumb through the LA Times. His usual response is a happier one, agreeing with the conservatives that write for what Conservative Los Angeles passes as "news".

"What is, pop?"

He takes out the leaflet concerning what the "bullshit" was and shot it over to me opposite of him.

"That, is what's bullshit, Spencey."

I scanned over quickly, extracting a few points here and there.

"What, some street gang fights?"

I hear a "hmmph!!" from behind his newspapered facade and roll my eyes before diving back into the text.

"So...it's a _lot_ of gang fights?"

"Even more than that, pipe bombs through shop windows, inside cars, graffiti, the designs are new and the gangs haven't even been heard of before. No one knows anything about it. Not a god-damn clue."

"Arthur!!!"

We both look up, scrunching our noses in time with each other. We drop the disgusted look as Satan's 7th bride stalks into the room, bleary eyed and clutching a cup of coffee.

"You're setting a bad example for Spencer, don't do that!"

Dad sighed and put his papers down, grabbing his briefcase and jacket, giving me a quick nod and brushing past mom. Welcome to my world. This was me at the tail-end of a decent sophmore year. This isn't where my story begins, not really anyways. It's just a prelude after a prelude. An epilogue if you will. My story with the Weekend Wars didn't start here, just the event itself, the WWIII as people call it, except it didn't involve the world, just our disillusioned youth, and our tired and dying parents, and the war (in the beginning) was not fought with national guards or with threats of martial law. It was fought with words and editorials, the blood and guts come later.

This epilogue is just to serve to set the stage for this grand epic that swept a nation off its feet is all, a jumping in point into the vast, deep, and unfathomably large ocean that this story is. For more than obvious reasons, names have been changed, occurrences, places, events, outside persons, and otherwise have remained the same, you can look them up in an remaining record keeping service that wasn't burnt at the Reclamation. My "name" for this story will be Spencer Marie Carlin. It is not real, it is far from what my actual name is, and even by masking it as I do, I still put myself and many other's at risk. But the beginning must be told and laid out, maplike if you will. We must map just when this absolute free-fall of modern American man began, and where total anarchy and chaos took it's empty throne.

The Wars began, as many other huge conflicts do (such as World War I, II, Cold War etc.) as something that everyone brushes off as just another "issue", something that can be dealt with by the government which we have unshakable faith in. And so, the very event that could have been prevented, a small spark at the beginning, ignited into a firestorm, and brought a nation to its knees. And the only thing that needed doing was just to check the surveillance cameras of late night AM/PM stores and 7/11's, and you would see the roving bands of young men and women which wrested control from adults who had been in the machine all their lives.

But that's getting a little too into it. It was at the ending of my sophmore year, the summer of 2008, that the Wars were little more than a whisper on the wind, and people were more concerned with salvaging jobs, food, money, and their own lives. I lived in a well to-do family, my mother was a late night ER doctor (don't need to tell you about what she got up to at late night breaks at 3 in the morning), and my father was an Attorney, a mean, tough, and very hard-ass attorney at that. But he was really just a big softie, he just had trouble dropping his work face at home. I had two brothers; Glen, the muscle head, played basket-ball, foot-ball, soccer, track, and any other sport you could take untraceable steroids on, and kick ass doing so. Clay, the adopted angel child was accepted early into USC, and we rarely crossed paths with him anymore, him being a UC man and attending mixers and study parties over our weekly family dinner. We all essentially hated each other, but that's how it is in California, the divorce rate was 50%, and our family was moving into that unyielding percentile, slowly and steadily inching towards the inevitable. I was an average girl, not fat, not skinny, not smart, not dumb, I wasn't happy, I wasn't sad. I just existed. I had friends, yet I existed in spheres where no one could really reach me. I got by, I didn't look forward to much, I spent my time doing homework, reading, listening to music, and wandering around the now virtually destroyed metropolis of the City of Angels. I could get up a 5 in the morning on a Saturday morning, and shuffle on home in the wee hours of Monday morning, barely falling into bed by the time the alarm went off. So, that's how I spent my time, I was a wanderer, it didn't take my not to smart, not to stupid mind to comprehend that. I felt like I was always destined to roam, to be un-attatched, and to rove the world as I saw fit. This LA residence was only temporary, I never intended to go to college, I was planning on cleaning out my bank account upon the big 18 and bolting in the wee hours to a new and exotic location. I wanted to travel. I needed to travel. Anything to escape the monotony that California offered me. The weather was similar to the people, half baked, burnt out, glaringly bright and orange, and with no change on the horizon, or in any forseeable future. I wished for change, as much as a 17 year old girl could wish for it, I wished for change. And I'm not talking about some pretty boy busting into my room and carrying me off. I wanted adventure, I wanted places to go, people who weren't stupid to converse to, and a good, happy place to lay my head down in at night. It wasn't much, but it was a start, and I knew the world outside this smog-filled and suffocating place offered me those things, and much more than I could dream of. I wished desperately for change. And my change came, as swiftly as any Blitzkrieg could. It came with a girl (as it always does) and it came on me so fast, I found myself wondering if I really wanted what had descended on me.


	3. We Can Crush Plants to Paint My Walls

--News Bulletin--

Copy of Manuscript from taping of Fox's Hannity and Colmes; 8/13;

Hannity: Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen, this is a special broadcast, normally we don't run our show for another hour, but considering the circumstances, we've decided to compile a few sources and throw together this presentation for you all. As you know, or hopefully would know, this broadcast is due to the extremely urgent nature of the problems issuing out of Los Angeles. At around 3 this morning, at 5 major banks listing as Washington Mutual, Wells Fargo, Bank of America, Citibank, and Wachovia, all located on or around Sunset Boulevard, 5 pipe bombs exploded simultaneously. Luckily, the banks were all closed, but these banks were all major holders of credit information, and many had backed-up loans, mortgages, and countless home-owners papers, all which were lost in either the massive home-made explosion, or in the resulting fires. So far the White House has not commented on this horrendous terrorist attack on American soil, and quite frankly, I'm just enraged as many others in this country when the White House, so gung-ho about catching terrorists, failed to prevent a major breach in national security. I've brought in Terrorist Specialist Julian Wright.

Wright: Hello, it's a pleasure to be here.

Hannity: It's a pleasure to have you, now, down to business, what, in your honest, professional opinion do you think happened?

Wright: Well, the investigation is obviously ongoing and open-ended, but we've determined that they bombs were planted during store hours from security cameras, no one was shown planting them or breaking in. We're assuming a remote detonator was used, and the same persons planned each attack.

Hannity: Who are these "persons" you're talking about?

Wright hesitates and trails off.

Hannity: Well, Mr. Wright? Witholding information?

Wright: It's not that Mr Hannity...rather, the theories we've been developing and have actually found shreds of proof to support are rather...unorthodox.

Hannity: Well Mr. Wright, this is an "unorthodox" matter, now, if you'd do the rest of us red-blooded patriots a favor and tell us what in the hell is happening to our great nation.

Wright: Alright alright. Well, we've determined that...well we think we've determined...Well, rather that we've-

Hannity: Out with it!!!!!

Wright: We believe the perpetrators were of American nationality and hailed from the surrounding areas in Los Angeles.

--The show is then promptly cut at this time, the rest, if any more dialogue was spoken, has gone off record and un-recorded. It reached the AP that the interview was strictly forbidden by the Governor of California when the request came through to broadcast. The show went on anyways, and the specialist, Mr. Wright is being pressed with charges of leaking classified information, apparently him receiving word of the news from the Brigadeer General. Both the Governor's office and the White House has refused comment on the topic, and it is reported that the show Hannity and Colmes has been canceled due to threatening domestic security.

The Sunset Bombings, as they came to be known, occurred at the tail-end of my summer before Junior year. This is when things escalated from "domestic threat" to something that was whispered furtively as being a national conspiracy to wipe out the nation's credit scores and related articles, taking us to "ground zero". Of course, the anchors and broadcasters who shouted and drilled these ideas into our heads were soon taken off the air, white noise replacing one, then two, then three and four of my favorite radio morning shows in rapid succession. The Iron Curtain of the 2000's descended upon us, beginning slowly with the eeking out of free-thoughts and speech. But we, as sheeple, didn't notice. I certainly didn't notice either, me being the jaded (as some would say) and careless teenager that I was, I worried only about my own bubble and sphere in this realm that we call Earth. But, as I returned to school, I first took subtle (and very unremarked) notice of these ranks of bruised and battered I mentioned earlier. At the opening assembly alone, from my balcony seat in my auditorium, I counted nearly 250 students with injuries. This is an unremarkable number I suppose, especially out of a moderately crowded school, the student body numbering in at least 3 thousand, so 250 out of that is not too much in the scheme of things. What was remarkable however, was the severity of some injuries that I saw. At least 15 of those 250 injured was in a wheel chair. Another 25 were in neck braces with equipment attatched, and more then a few people sported multiple breakage all over their bodies, from shattered arms and legs to broken wrists and collar bones. There was even rumor that Tommy from Idaho had to get a prosthetic arm because gangrene set in on his arm after being stabbed. With what though, we don't know.

The nature of these accidents were horrific as you might be able to guess, but no one ever told what happened to them. Well, they did, it just doesn't seem plausible or possible that almost 400 kids (by late September) were getting these accidents from weekend skiing and BMXing trips. But, no one raised a stink about it, and from the looks of things, I was the only one who didn't buy the skiing excuses. I came to this conclusion after a discussion at length about it to my friend Eryn Smith. We were at the lunch tables watching the massive blob of students move to and fro when I spotted yet another invalid among us. I pointed him out, an Andy something or other to her, to which she shrugged and only remarked "Sandrail accident in Pizmo."

I gaped at her, Sandrail?

"Eryn, you don't believe that honestly do you?"

"Watcha mean?"

"Andy lives in the slums, how in the hell would he afford a Sandrail, let alone a trip with all the equipment out to Pizmo??"

Eryn had been basking in the sun next to me when her face suddenly pinched up and she looked warily around her. I narrowed my eyes. What in the-?

"It's a friends. Listen...I have to go umm, to the library, see you."

She all but leaped off the seat and sprinted in the opposite direction of the Library, towards a rather sizeable group of bruised and battered kids. I squinted in the sunlight to see them, and promptly saw that they had raised their eyes to me. I turned quickly back around, school gangs were dangerous, even if they vaguely knew anything about a curious mind. And that was that, through several long nights of thought and inflection, I realized that these kids could very well be involved with the string of "international terrorist attacks" occurring around LA. But that was crazy, I mean, how could Bryce, the stoned and high out of his mind 24/7 slacker be involved in a highly organized and radically dangerous street gang striking fear into the heart of the country and in cities that had never even stepped foot in California? It seemed highly impossible.

That was until I started noticing a new trend at the beginning of October. Underage tattoos aren't rare, far from it, whether it be for gang protection or a girlfriend's name, tattoos were everywhere in my school. On the occasional guys bicep I'd catch a flash of the sign, and I thought nothing of it. Until I saw it everywhere. Everywhere on the injured's that is. On every single one of the maimed and dismembered groups was that tattoo, usually on the biceps, though I'd seen it on the stomachs and backs of many girls with busted lips and a sneer to anyone who asked. I almost commented it to Eryn until I saw a flash of it on her own skin, marked onto her side as she got up to stretch one day. I clammed up as she asked me why I'd gone white as a sheet and quickly took my leave of her before I blurted out my question. I wanted to someone, anyone about this, but I trusted no one, and at this point, the number of injured teens was skyrocketing to a 5 in every ten students. That's over half the kids at my school who were branded by this gang, and were involved in those horrific brawls that were happening on weekends, and beginning to spill out into the weekdays.

Now, on re-reading through this manuscript thus far, I've noticed that I have been acting as if all of my time was devoted to this new and increasingly alarming gang population spreading in my school. This leaves speculation as to what I did when not preoccupied by the issue or thinking about it. Something I failed to mention earlier is that I'm gay. Now, this would usually be irrelevant, but in this case, it is relevant, because my attraction for the same sex was what drew me into this entire issue, and compelled me to write it down for you as I am now. I had dated once or twice before this occurred, nothing huge, nothing earth-shatteringly beautiful or moving, not love, just lust, maybe some intense liking sprinkled into the mix. It wasn't like I was always prowling around for girls to seduce and have, far from it, my experience with girls left me shocked and bitter, but a quick re-run on the guy circuit showed me that even if girls left a bittersweet aftertaste with me, guys left an outright disgusting and bitter one in my mouth, and as the selfish girl I am would have it, I opted for that bittersweetness, savoring the sweetness just as much as the bitterness. So I was gay, but not hopelessly over the moon for women, just...very fond of looking and imagining is all. I always kept an eye open and an ear perked for any news of a maybe single girl that I could have for a few months, and I'd snag one from time to time, I wasn't the commitment phobe, I just had no desire to be tied down, and I highly doubted the existence of "love" in highschool, or in the real world. That's jaded for you.

So I wasn't exactly trolling for girls when I spotted her in my Algebra 2 class. It was just the back of her head after all, and I wasn't instantly smitten or intrigued by her, just curious is all. But isn't that how all love stories begin? Curiosity for another person? Romeo and Juliet, mindful of this curiousness were led to their deaths by seeing how far it could get them. Countless couples succumbed to that disease, but at the time, I told myself it was the mildest of all forms of curiosity. Now, before you say that the Curiosity was from something like "love at first sight" or some other bull like that, it wasn't because of that at all. It was her tattoo. She had one, just like the rest. Right there on her neck, visible through the thick brown curls that ran down her back. I'd caught sight of it one day, and my mind wasn't able to let it go. That fascination with that tattoo led me to do things I didn't ever anticipate I'd be doing. That tattoo led me to her. That tattoo led me to the Warriors. That tattoo spelled the end of Los Angeles, and what may be (currently) the downfall of the United States.


	4. I wont try to fight in the weekend wars

--News Bulletin--

::A tattoo artist (name undisclosed) was arrested this morning in a raid in the early morning on an undisclosed property, being arrested for tattooing several thousand teenagers. Many parents are shocked at this outrage, and many believe it's in connection with what the police chief of LA is calling the "Weekend Wars". Most brush off that theory, saying that not thousands of teenagers could be running around with brands of a violent and un-known street gang.

"The theory is just ridiculous, I mean really, who could imagine thousands of well to-do, nicely bred teenagers living here could have those tattoos, associating with that ungodly band of misfits and be terrifying the residents of their neighborhoods and not be caught."

This is the sentiment expressed by the chairman of the Catholic League that many parents and others share. The tattoo artist is remaining silent about his clientele and what he tattooed upon the countless numbers of minors that he dealt with on a daily basis. He claims that he had no hired help or apprentices, though there's evidence in his shop/garage that he employed several teenagers in apprenticing and doing tattoos with that 3 other tattoo machines found. The White House once again remains silent and has not issued a statement on the deteriorating situation in Los Angeles.

In other news, there's furtive speculation that the Weekend Wars may be connected to the Sunset Bombings that occurred in August exactly 2 months ago.::

----AP PRESS RELEASE 10/13----

It was around this time that I began paying more attention to the headlines and newstories then I had ever before in my life. They were surprising, shocking, and revealing facts about the publics ongoing fascination with the "Weekend Wars". Catchy name huh? That dumbass chief came up with it. In hindsight, I see it could have been painfully easy to catch a number of these Weekend Warriors. The afterhours cameras catching hordes of teenagers out and about, the mass tattooing, and (from what I heard) the gangs tattoo artist (aptly named Archie) was in jail. And as for Tattoo Girl, as I called her, I spent more and more time staring at her neck, studying the tattoo and its details. If anything I'd say I was more infatuated with the object on her than the person who it was inked into. But of course I'd never seen her face before, I was always buried in a news article, book, or sleeping, and by the time I awoke or looked up, she was comfortably in place, her back and neck facing me, the tattoo tantalizingly dancing in front of me. I continued to note and write down the numbers, and by mid-October, the number of injured kids was about 500, and each one had a tattoo. It was then that I noticed that Eryn was becoming increasingly scarce, and when I did see her, black eyes, bloody noses, and bandages dominated the view. I carefully took note of this as well. One day it came to a head. I was marking down the days numbers (4 more wheelchairs had joined the ranks) and tallying them up when a bruised hand slammed onto my binder. I jumped and looked up, startled.

"What in the-"

I had no time to speak as I was grabbed roughly from behind and dragged out of the quad. I would've screamed but I felt the dull edge of a knife pressed into my back, poking softly through my jacket. I was too numb and surprised to panick. I was dragged through the english hall into an empty classroom before I was thrown onto the floor, the door slamming in front of me. I looked to see two figures silhouetted in the glass plane in the door. I hear a small cough from behind me and whirl around. It's just me and a girl. She's leaning on a desk in a pair of short shorts and a tight black shirt. I would've drooled fountains if not for the bruises littering that beautifully sculpted body in front of me.

"So you've been keeping tabs on us?"

I squint confused.

"What?"

She held up my blue notebook and flipped to the back where I kept my tallies.

"October the first, 430 kids I've counted are now injured. All 430 kids I've counted I've seen that tattoo on, for males it stays on the bicep, girls it can range from biceps to back, stomach, sides, and ever a few thighs and feet."

She snapped the book shut and tossed it to the ground.

"What do you want? You someone's mole or what?"

My eyes pop open. So I _was_ right.

"There IS a gang in this school."

"Biggest chunk of the good guys in this school district."

"Good guys?"

She glared at me suspiciously.

"Yeah, you've been checking up on us. You knew that."

I shook my head, desperately trying to think of something to get me out of this situation.

"No! No I really don't. I just look at who's injured and the tattoos. I kinda guessed at the whole gang thing. That is till you told me..."

Her glare dropped into a sheepish smile.

"Oh! Well, uhmmm..."

Obviously she was the head honcho here, but she wasn't what you'd call leadership material. Rather she was just elevated to this status by some fluke. She scratched her head and laughed nervously before yelling out-loud "LT!!". A tall lanky asian loped into the room standing at attention in front of the girl. I noticed his tattoo was different then the others, more geometrically designed and placed on his hand instead.

"You said you had intel that she was checking up on us! She didn't even know we existed!!"

"Well...she had numbers in her notebook, Eryn confirmed that. We assumed from there."

The girl shook her head in the negative and motioned for him to leave. He loped back out, shutting the door. She sighed heavily and sat back down on the desk.

"This is normally where I'd beat the shit out of you and tell you you'd have more like that coming if you breathed a word to anyone of this."

My heart froze and I had trouble breathing.

"...But, in light of all this, we'll just take your information for the archives and classify you as a 'moderate' for now."

I began to ask before she raised a hand for silence. I quited at once. She leaned behind and grabbed a clipboard and red pen, tossing them to me. She grabbed my notebook while I looked at the form. It was basically like an application, asking for all of my basic information, even my social security number.

"Uhmm..."

"What?"

"What if we don't know everything?"

She sighed again.

"You're killing me kid, just do what you can, hit all the highlighted information. And don't make stuff up, we'll know."

I nodded and quickly filled out the sheet, with things like my weight and food preference to whether I was abused as a child and my blood type.

"Hey..."

I looked up and saw her leafing through my notebook again.

"This entry for the 3rd this month, you said '6 new broken arms and at least 7 new tattoos.' You're sure that's accurate?"

I nodded and went back to writing.

"That's odd..."

I glanced up again.

"I didn't authorize any new admissions till the 7th... LT!!!!"

The door opened and skinny asian re-appeared in the doorway.

"Come here."

He loped over again and it was then I noticed that a chunk of his right ear was missing and that he had a peculiar limp to his gait. His pants leg shifted slightly and I saw a binding soaked red. I almost puked.

"Read."

He took my notebook and scanned quickly, handing it back. Some color had drained from his face.

"That's 7 unaccounted for regulars. Kid!!"

I looked up.

"You said 430 are running around?"

"No, that was just up till the 1st. I've been so busy that I haven't been tallying in a while. My last number was from the...15th, it had gone up to maybe 500."

Now both of their faces drained.

"500? LT, we only have 450 on record. That's 50 or more rogues. We need a meeting, tonight, I want all registered's there, rain or shine, get me?"

LT nodded and loped off once more, leaving a small trail of blood.

"AND FIX THE BANDAGE YOU IDIOT!"

She cleared her throat and went back to my notebook. I finished and set the clipboard on the ground. She snapped the book closed and threw it to me, retrieving the clipboard from the ground.

"Ok kid, this is what's gonna happen. I've just saved your life essentially. You are now classified as a moderate security breach. That means you will be tailed, but not night and day, and we will be keeping tabs on your major activities. What this means is that you are safe and protected, but also monitored for anything suspicious. In all technicality I should've classified you are a major breach which would have resulted in your immediate removal. But, in all fairness, you're just another bored teenager who took to counting our ranks. I want you to keep up on counting us and leave the notebook at a designated spot at the end of each day as specified. We need the information you're so dully collecting. Do this for us and you remain safe. Break any of these rules and you're done. Get it?"

I nodded. I got it.

"Good. Now get your notebook and leave the way you came. And remember..."

I looked behind me, but the open window was swinging in the breeze and she was nowhere to be seen. Words floated to me on the wind coming in.

"...We don't exist."


	5. One Day I Was Too Lazy To Bathe

A/N: Sorry ive been gone, my computer died from all the STDs(viruses) that I accumulated, so it finally just crapped out about a month and a half ago DX. I begin anew, watching noir anime from the 90's and in the writing mode.

--News Bulletin--

LA Times; Local News;Breaking News

In a shocking climax to the "Weekend Wars" in Los Angeles, the dead and maimed body of a teenaged boy was found, hanging from a stoplight, a noose made out of barbed wire suspending him 5 feet from the ground. Commuters claim to have seen nothing out of the ordinary that morning or night, but officials are reporting that the time-frame should logically have fallen around 3 or so in the morning of October the 20th. No real time is available, however, due to tampering with the cameras stationed at the major corners of Sunset Boulevard and Melrose, the guess falling into testimonies of commuters from the times of 12 in the afternoon to 12 in the morning, no one coming forward to claim any time later than that. The boy was not officially identified, but an inside source identified him as Benjamin Fredricks, a student from King Highschool in the LA Unified School District. He is a senior there, and was top Quarterback for their football team, and by all accounts, "not mixed up in any unsavory activities" (his mother, Darlene). A strange tattoo was found on the inside of his left forearm, a design which was seen with the recently arrested Archie who had been running the illegal tattoo ring with teenagers as clients and employees. It was remarked as "very eastern design, it vaguely calls to mind the symbols of old esoteric cults from the Middle East, bordering the Iraqi border, in the desert regions of the area, whoever designed this, they knew their cults, and they knew their symbology." (resident symbologist, a Dr. Andrew Peter, UCI). In a very geometrical, blocked design, many occultists, symbologists, and now, eastern studies have been called to examine the tattoo. Many are pointing fingers at the new and supposedly growing group, "The Weekend Wars" which has been leading to increasing violence and more outbreaks of panic in surrounding areas.--

I knew Ben, he copied off of me on the first day of Junior year in Algebra II. The day before he was found dead, I got back my notebook, I was looking at the "new recruits" section. He had a red mark next to his name. He wasn't an authorized member. The school snapped into action with a memorial, assembly, and counselor session in groups for the entire school. I was caught and corralled into the gym for an immediate and "emergency" assembly, before breaking into grade levels to talk about our feelings to the awaiting vulturous counselors. I filed in more or less last, and found a seat jammed into the dusty corner reserved for when pot needed to be smoked, and ill-thought out hook-ups needed a place to conduct their business. It just so happened I was placed behind the cheerleading squad. Now let me point something out. When someone dies, especially in a school setting, complete idiots and assholes come out of the wood-work to claim knowing in depth this dead person so recently deceased. There was and is nothing I hate more than someone claiming to know a dead person when it's just to gain popularity or get extra attention.

And wouldn't you know it? I'm sat behind the cheerleading squad, the number one practitioners of that black art of pretending to be the deads best friend. The conversation listed something like this:  
(and in whiny high-pitched voices accentuated by the occasional "sob").

"Like, why did this happen?!?! Ben was like...like the best like guy ever. I remember the last day he was here Tiff!!!"

"I know!! It's so sad, I heard Britt and him didn't even get to say good-bye, how tragical!"

"We were so close before he died like that, like, it's so bad and gruesome, I dropped everything when I like heard about it."

"Isn't it so tragic? Hey, is prom still going on?"

"I know, I hope it is, I'd freak if it wasn't, I have a hair appointment after-school, plus my dress is non-refundable!"

"I heard the only reason they're not canceling it is cause the DJ's already paid for."

"Well that's like...good luck!"

The youth of America was doomed to say the least. Or at least the youth of LA, California was doomed. The first ones to be doomed, the rest of the countries youth are in the process of falling right now. I was in the process of zoning out when I felt a 'thunk' into the seat on my right, successfully sandwiching me in between the wall, the cheerleaders, and this new intruder. I sighed heavily and earned a light chuckle. I turn to see in the dim light, the tattoo girl sitting in the seat, legs sprawled out on the headrest in front of her, staring at me and ignoring the nasty looks the cheerleaders were throwing her.

"What's shakin, Carlin?"

If I told you I was surprised that she knew my name, I'd be lying, with that sheet I filled out, she had my social security number, my home address, and my family tree extending back three generations. I shake my head in the negative before turning back to the front, a projection screen throwing up grainy and quite unflattering pictures of the former Benjamin, with some guest counselor with the microphone, bleating phrases and advice to the masses, probably falling on deaf ears. I knew by now with my daily countings that maybe a fourth of the school was now involved with the Wars, and those who were actual members did not look kindly on impostors. It was like a tightly run business, or cartel rather, and the bloody feuds were, as far as I could see, a turf war and a matter of family business. Was I upset over Ben's death? Sure I was. He was just a harmless idiot, probably heard of the benefits from being involved with the Warriors and wanted in. Though it wasn't a well known fact back in the day, the screening process for the Warriors was quite rigorous, and if rejected, you were forced to sign a legally binding waiver that promised no information learned would be divulged. The rejectees were tailed for several months after the process, and permanently wire-tapped thereafter. When I say that the Warriors were a giant family/cartel, I mean it. So, long story short, the members of the Warriors spared little sympathy, and if you forge, fake, or try to claim belonging to the Warriors, the penalty was death, as stated on the waiver. I was just surprised at the way they conducted it, a rather gruesome trophy to warn those who were impostors.

"This is bullshit huh, the original plan was to skin the fucker entirely."

If I were to tell you that I was surprised at her malice towards what may be just a small slight, I'd be lying as well. Cruelty is not something rare in teenagers, I will give her that, and the fierceness with which she protected her clan, was something I understood, and something I wished I could have. The love that bound them all together was something that was amazing and beautiful to me, a love fiercer than rules, precepts, standards, and wills. The love shaped the world, and bound them all, unrelated at first, into a huge family, which would do any and everything for one another. I wanted that kind of love. And I believe she could sense it, even back then.

"What say you we get outta here? I want pizza."

I laughed then, I think. In the midst of all this "sorrow" and "suffering", something as trivial as pizza was deemed more important over this freak-show of a performance on the students part. I must have nodded my head in agreement, because I remember that the pizza-outing resulted in another kind of outing as well. A Warrior outing.

As usual with school locations, a mini-mall was situated a block away, complete with a Ralphs, Subway, Starbucks, and a hole-in-the-wall Italian resturaunt which I learned had what may have been the best pizza in LA before that block was leveled with four truck-fulls of Nitro-Glyceride three months ago. Anyways, the block walk through sweltering heat and mid-day traffic and cursing was mundane, not a word being exchanged through the entire walk, or up to opening the door to enter. I went to what I thought was an empty table, only to be roughly grabbed by tattoo girl and hauled into the 'Employees Only' lounge, past a big, sausage-smelling man named Vinny, and into a dark, smoky and dismal back room filled to the brim with people. There was a low buzz of conversation that halted as soon as we entered, all eyes, bruised, half-open, and even swollen-shut, raised to us. Nobody spoke a word, and I felt painfully aware of how badly this situation could turn out for me if I didn't clear the door in five or so seconds. I twitch my hand barely an inch to the door-knob when I hear a low muttering from my right.

"You touch that knob and a quarter of the Warriors will rip you limb from limb."

I froze. And my heart nearly did too.

"Now let me do the talking, Carlin."

I only nod numbly, my hand falling limply to my side. I hear her clap her hands and rub them together, walking forward and leaving me in the shadowy corner as every eye turned to her.

"Hey guys, you know the drill, everyone sign in with Vin?"

Lifeless "yeahs" and nods for those with necks that weren't in braces, the rest, all remained silent, some eyes straying to me. I shift from foot to foot, becoming a notch over notch of anxious and scared of what could happen to me. While I didn't really value life at the time, I didn't want to die by barbed wire hanging at Sunset, or be bound to a wheelchair like those who hadn't died. Tattoo girl turned back to me and smiled widely. Her canine teeth were missing.

"This is Carlin, she's been recon lead for the last few weeks, helps us nab Benjy."

Many pairs of eyes lit up at the mention of Benjy, whom I could only assume was Benjamin, who was so recently deceased. I hear some hearty "yeah!"'s and "ohhhhh"'s, earning a discreetly hidden eye-roll on my part, before quickly averting my eyes to the ground.

"So everyone's cool with it?"

I hear more "yeah!'s", but I see a rather bulky guy stand up in the back. Half his cheek is burnt and crispy.

"How do we know she's clean?"

Tattoo girl's stance changes from open and casual to suddenly stiff. It's at this moment I notice the lump in the back of her jeans, just at the waist-band, hidden under a tight black jacket. She shifts slightly, and I see the raised ridges of the grip on the handle, the hammer, and several inches of the barrel, I can tell it's a standard hand-gun, and tucked into the pocket on her immediate left, a switch-blade, pop-up and all.

"Did you think I'd let a narc in here?"

Burney Man hesitates.

"No...I just..."

"Are you questioning what Jack wrote down, _in blood_ in his book?"

"No, I just wanted to know-"

"Because Jack left it to me, and with that, he left it to all of you to trust me, in every single one of you, he told you to trust me. Cause he trusted me too."

Burney sat back down. Tattoo girl turned to me, waving me forward to step up beside her. I shuffled forward quietly, trying as hard as possible to make as little noise as possible. I expected my impending doom. I got worse then doom. She snapped her fingers twice, and I was mildly surprised to see Eryn bring forth a book. I wouldn't even call it a book, I'd call it a tome. It was as big as the unabridged copy of the Old and New Testament that mom kept in her study, collecting dust on a reading stand, an untouched wedding present from a marriage long gone. Tattoo hefted the book up, keeping it still at waist level, holding it between us.

"I want you to put your hand on it."

I gaze at her, confused.

"You want me to...what?"

She locks her eyes with mine, and its the steadiest, calmest, most intent gaze that ever laid itself on me.

"Put your right hand on this book. Lift your left hand up."

I'd argue with her, but seeing as I'm surrounded by tons of sweating, beaten up, pulpy, burnt ruffians, I have no room to do anything but breathe and pray. I put my hand on the book, and raise my left one.

"This is your book now. You only write in black ink. Before you die, you sign your last will in blood."

I'd say I was shocked at these directions. And I'd be telling you the truth. I discreetly lift the edge facing the wall instead of the mob, but its tapped down by a lone finger. I look up to her and see her shake her head.

"You write in it only when you're in a room, alone, windows drawn, and one light on. These rules must be followed, or your book is subject to search, seizure, and destruction on whatever grounds deemed suspicious."

I only swallow, my throat feeling like cotton, and nod numbly. Tattoo girl turns to the crowd now.

"Her security is now at 5B, she is to come under no harm whatsoever, is that understood?"

Nods and yes's as usual, and Burney Man stays down and quiet. She turns back to me.

"You will be safe, and that's all you need to know. The rules you followed apply as before, you are safe, and that's all. Never misplace this book or leave it in the open."

I find myself walking down and alone a twilight boulevard, past school and away from Vinny's Homestyle Italian resturaunt. I carry a tome sized book of what I discover to be blank pages, a pen and straight-edge contained in a plastic bag by the cover page, also blank. And under this tome of blankness, was a medium pizza-box, carrying a freshly made pepperoni pizza. I told them I was a vegetarian. They laughed at me and told me all the little cows and piggys could fuck themselves, then jump into the slaughter-house, ready for consumption by us.


	6. Or paint write and try to make a change

--Articles--

_Warriors Homework Assignment;_

_10/27/08._

have three assignments this week. All three must be done and logged before 5am of 11/3/08. If you are caught or identification of yourself is imminent, you must:

A.) Use standard issue switch-blade and remove tattoo.

B.) Use standard issue packet of white phosphorus and open it on tattoo patch.

C.)Take cyanide capsule promptly after tattoo removal and destruction.

--As a side-note, confine the whereabouts of your book to at least one member.

_Assignment 1:_

_-_Set fire to a Synagogue, Mosque, Church, or Temple. Use holy-relics as tinder on main altars/tabernacles/platforms.

_Assignment 2:_

-Blow up one luxury/sports/foreign car with a net value over 300,000 dollars. Use any type of untraceable, Warrior made explosive, remember rule number 50;

All explosives, incendiaries, plastic explosives, remote detonators, and grenades are to be home-made, with untraceable components.

_Assignment 3:_

-Destroy a Build-a-Bear workshop, get creative, and extra-credit will be awarded. Be mindful of rule 76;

Use leather/latex/cloth gloves, leave no discernible prints, evidence, or residue from your presence when handling inside jobs.

Good luck.::

A week after receiving my book, being inducted (as I assumed was that odd ritual) and breaking my one year fasting of meat on a delicious pepperoni pizza, I received that flyer in the mail. It was in a tan envelope, had no postage, return address, stampage, or markings. I read the hand-out several times, and almost laughed out loud at the message conveyed by these apparent "homework assignments" given to the Warriors. The underlying message was one that was so starkly beautiful and desperate that I laughed, and felt compelled to cry at the same time. I believe I may have done both when it dawned on me. If you're an upper middleclass, or upper class teenager, the goals established in this handout are glaringly relevant. It always struck me as odd and so wrong that the most affluent in society were the ones who were most jaded, disillusioned, and hateful of the society that loved them, their parents, and their parents money. Those who didn't really need that first minimum wage job, or complained to mommy and daddy about not having the latest SideKick were those who hated life and society the most. Because with money, power, and a secured seat of importance in life, comes the dreaded harbingers of adult-hood;

Responsibility, and expectations.

If you are a teenager living above the poverty line and living in relative comfort, you know exactly what I'm saying. You come to resent all the things required of you when you're given money, comfort, power, stature, and "proper" breeding and blood, complete with little papers signed in triplicate. You wish you were somewhere, _anywhere_ that didn't come with having to do chores, having to submit to the indomitable will of your parents, going to the right school, becoming the right profession, meeting the right girl. All of these things you are forced into subservience for, you hate. These assignments were written by bored, jaded, hateful creatures, and were carried out to the letter by bored, jaded, hateful creatures underneath the top jaded creatures in the order of the Warriors. In quite plain terms, the Weekend Warriors who wrecked havoc, who murdered a young man and hung him, still kicking, screaming, and bleeding from a stoplight in the middle of the night with a barbed wire noose, were those kids you grew up with. The Jonses's down the street, that nice little boy Jeffrey you played with growing up, he did those things. We did those things. So if a finger must be pointed, which I'm sure, is what always happens when something doesn't go according to plan, the finger must be pointed at the doting, insensitive, steel-willed, and hell-bent parents. The parents who forced you into Sunday's best and dragged you to Church every weekend to repent before God Almighty. Those who were the ones embezzling company funds, hating the poor, cheating and scorning the charities, spending Friday and Saturday night's drinking champagne bought with tax-dollars from the blue-collared working man who went till his fingers bled to feed his kids.

The fact of the matter is, the kids who wore hand-me-down's and never knew more than five presents at Christmas time, were the one's least responsible for these things happening. With them, survival to the next week was the main dinner-table topic, rather than what car you wanted for you fifteenth birthday. They were content with squalor and poverty stricken lives because they'd never seen anything different, and pressures were of a different sort, and they understood why those pressures were necessary. They needed to struggle through school, get a crappy job, work long hours, and go to college to support the family that always supported them. There was a purpose for aiming for the stars, and it most certainly was not because they were bored. So when the cops went after sub-par living standards families, outrage was considerable, but in the lower levels of course, never in the upper tiers of society, because that's what they honestly believed in their souls; that the poor, destitute street children were responsible for defacing their great city.

This revelation made me even more jealous that I wasn't included in these displays of hatred and jadedness, I was just part of recon, and as such, I wasn't required to perform these duties. I'm not a violent person, but the opportunity to destroy an expensive car, a Build-A-Bear shop, and desecrate a holy place was something that my soul craved more than anything else. That's why, on the night of Octover 30th , my birthday, when I should have been at this black tie event at the Country Club with my mother, father, and the rest of disinterested suburbia, I went to the Beachside Church (not located at a beach side) and planned to set it on fire. As expected, I knew how to pick locks, and from the run down decrepitude of the church, the rusty padlock on the doors didn't give much of a fight, and there was no alarm system that I spied. I turned to look down the walk way, the dark rows of pews, the weakly lighted stained glass, the murky view of the altar, all of these small, insignificant things were my dark kingdom now. I think I laughed maniacally then. I had brought all of what I expected to need, lighter fluid, matches, gloves, a cro-bar from the garage (self defense against those pervy old priests) and a flash-light. I wasn't in attendance at this church, (my parents deemed it unfit, though I think that's awful weird if it's God's House) but I guessed roughly at where the relic for this church may be. I never really believed in venerating and worshiping some old guys shriveled up finger. The "saint" was probably just some old guy that the Church frisked for a finger or a ring, _that___story is what I would believe.

I located the relic (two fingers, surprise surprise) and after discovering it was a chunk of Saintly ol' Bartholemew of Lorraine, I set it on the main altar, coating the entire vested platform with a bottle and a half of fluid, throwing matches here and there before standing back to admire my handywork. So far was so good, no rent-a-cops, no groping old men, and no drama. I didn't expect any consequences really, I'd left no prints, and matches and lighter fluid come from any DIY store in LA, and I didn't really stop to think how this may affect the churchgoers that attended this church, or the flock, or the priests, or any of it. To tell the truth, I did not care in the least about anyone, just being able to pack up and leave a burning church in my wake, and to have it chalked up to the Warriors, or maybe blame it on more low income children, because when in doubt, you always _always_ blamed the poor man. Always and without fail did blame fall into the lap of those who had done nothing wrong. And that's why America's so damned great. I hit a few matches on my jeans and dropped them casually onto the tabernacle which now could very well be renamed to the "Tabernacle of Doom" and walked away, feeling the spreading fire against my back like I would feel the sun on my back on a warm day in the middle of July. I turned back to lock the doors and paused to admire what I'd done, the beams had already caught, and the rich clothes were catching as well, and I spared myself a pat on the back and a job well done. I locked the doors and gates back up before jumping the East facing wall and dropping down to my car. As I began my slow pull out to the adjacent neighborhood, I could've sworn I heard a screaming noise, from the direction of the now smoldering church, one of the glass windows melding into the wall and twisting the Virgin Mary into some grotesque half human being from Hell. I shrugged it off as the approaching fire trucks and drove casually through the dark and gloomy back alley before turning into t he neighborhood tracts, then getting onto the 405 and leaving a now brightly lit background in the foreground, the screams now multiple against the cool calm night.


	7. Now I Can Shoot a Gun to Kill my Lunch

--News Bulletin--

from the Former President's hard-drive after the collapse of the world wide internet and telephone system.

++George, the 'situation' in Los Angeles is getting worse, last night, over forty churches were fired, it killed almost twenty people. We can't trace anything, there were no witness's, no security camera tapes, no nothing. The situations going critical, if we don't coordinate something soon, things may start getting out of hand, the population of Los Angeles and surrounding areas is huge, and these incidences are getting worse. I'm considering National Guard support, and maybe even enforced curfew in the near-future. Just...think about some possible options in case things go sour. Whatever happens, we can contain the situation and neutralize it, just be aware of some potential press rush and conference requests, be prepared for quite a storm. - Dick.::

I didn't hear about the old Irish priest from Beachside until another day had passed. I still remember getting in on that night, it had started to rain, probably smoldering my work, but I was still covered in a fine soot, my lungs burning and tingling all the way down to my toes, my eyes burning and stinging, tears threatening my eyes. It felt good, destroying something that was "holy" something that people revered and looked to in times of strife and trouble. I remember not even being shaken when I heard about it, sure, I knew him. You remember all those horror stories about molesting priests?Well, Father Donnogan was one of them. It was the talk of the county, but no one ever ran him in for it. He gave a great Hell and brimstone speech, and the more vigorous he was in his damnation of sinners and deviants, you knew the more he had done that morning with the altar boy. He was some Italian import, his parents immigrants and living in the Southern European quarter of the ethnic camps. Either way you cut it, our Father was one hell of a brimstoner and he did love his burning lakes of fire and his roasting sinners. And though he was very vigorous and loud about his opinions on homosexuals (he liked the word faq, said that God approved of it) and lechery, but he never once touched pedophilia or molestation. It was an interesting point in lunch-table conversations that I'd hear whenever I decided to actually stay out for it. Unfortunately (or perhaps fortunately in some aspects) the Warriors heard about this happening as well.

And that's most definitely not to say that there weren't deaths resulting from the Winter Church Burnings (see also: Summer Church Burnings, Fall Church Burnings, the Great Burn of the Last Summer) but it was closest to the school. There's also the tiny fact that every member is monitored and taken into account for every action on the behalf of the warriors. So if I were to tell you I was surprised to be cornered by a small group headed by Tattoo Girl after work one day, I'd be lying. I worked at a Nature Center, it was tucked away at the back of a small city park, and to say business was further along then dead would be an understatement. We pulled in maybe a few thousand people a year, but with the entrance fee only two dollars, my pay wasn't stellar. So, while I was out trying to mend a fence on our border, I was accosted at first by shadows in the lengthening evening, and the shadows were promptly followed by the bodies themselves. They numbered at just four, which I felt was a little rude, I mean, if you're going to intimidate and potentially rough up someone, you shouldn't need more than two, maybe three if you wanted to push it. But four? Some form of official Warriors business is what I figured, though to be honest, I was more than a little intimidated already.

"Hey, we need to talk, Carlin."

I had been collecting the days donations, and had been shambling back to the main office. I turned robotically around.

"Were you at..."

She snapped her fingers and I saw besides herself, LT (with no bandage), a shorter girl with cropped copperish hair and glasses, and standing slightly in front of her, almost protectively, I noticed, was a smaller guy, scowl on his face and a bat in his hand. I might have taken a run for it right then and there if Tattoo girl hadn't started speaking to me again, a worn notebook now resting in her hands.

"...5598 on...1st street at 10:45 of October the 30th?"

I stared blankly at Tattoo girl, at her, through her, past her, and looked deeply into the shifting patterns that the leaves on the dying trees were painting on the sidewalk, filtering sunlight.

"Well? Were you?"

"Why are you even bothering to ask? Has your information ever been wrong?"

She grinned at me in response, the gaps where the canine teeth should have been yawned wide. If those canine teeth were still there, she would've looked like a wolf. And after seeing things that she's done, I can attest to how cruel and wolf-like she can get.

"Because when you put up a fight, it's much more interesting."

With that I was promptly grabbed by LT and the Copper Girl, the short Bat-Man standing there looking over-compensated with his bat glaring at me. I didn't really see where they whisked me off to, a blindfold will do that to you, you know? All I felt was being lifted up, set down in a seat (a really comfy bucketseat, real leather from what I could feel), hearing a roar of an engine, the coasting to a stop, and the eventual lifting up and being thrown over a shoulder. If I said I put up a fight, I would have been lying. If I said I'd wanted to at all...well, that'd be the worst lie I'd told so far. That's not to say I enjoy being manhandled all over the green earth seen fit to be given to us. I just...realized there was nothing I could do. From the feel of the human being lugging me around, I could feel muscles underneath taught, pitted, and scarred skin. Whoever was lugging me around must have seen a million scraps up till this point. I doubt a tall for my age (5'7 at seventeen) girl could've done much anyways, let alone stop what felt like a juggernaut hefting me around. I was plunked down in a hard wooden seat and the blindfold was promptly removed. I found myself sitting this time, in a cramped, sweaty room, but it smelled of Chinese food this time instead of week old salami.

"Hey LT, can you go close up the front? Ask your dad if that's alright."

I heard shuffling and a door opening then closing. I looked back to see Tattoo leaning against a wall, and if it was a different situation, the low-riding jeans, and high-riding shirt would have been a nice thing to see. But, the situation remained slightly uncomfortable, and a little scary. I say just a little, because I couldn't comprehend what could happen to me. Sure, there was the noose of barbed wire, the horrific firings and pipe bombings, but at that point in my association with the Warriors, I still wasn't sure of their full capabilities. LT loped back into the room, closing the door softly, and maybe giving Tattoo a nod. She cracked her knuckles and looked back to me, a wolfish grin, slowly spreading over her face.

"So, why wasn't our recon gig enough for you kiddo?"

"The people you recruit, nobody has an income lower than what, three, four, five hundred grand a year?"

The wolfish grin became down right feral.

"Someone's been doing more than their share of the homework."

"Why do you guys do this?"

She pushed off the wall and circled to my left, behind me and out of sight, and I hear hushed whispers and the opening and closing of a door. She circled back into my view and hunched down in front of me.

"Why do you think we do this, Carlin?"

I looked right into those eyes, and with mild surprise, found them brown. I would've sworn they were green last time we ran into each other. There was a gleam there, a glint, a flash, a pinpoint of light, or whathaveyou, but I saw there, contained in those eyes, secrets that would ultimately lead up to the revolution and re-shaping of our world and lives.

"I think it's because you're bored. I think it's because you're so bored with the rules that come with being popular, pretty, rich, and well-off that you need a past-time."

Another wolfish grin before she plunked down to sit before me, criss-cross applesauced and looking pleased as she eyed me. She pulled out a handle, and with a small click it revealed six inches of cold steel. She proceeded to pick at under her nails with the exposed tip, taking her attention from me.

"You're absolutely right. Though our recruiting program doesn't limit itself to just upper-class denizens. Even though most of our ranks are composed of them, we accept people from all backgrounds. It just so happens, those of us with the most latent rage issues are well to do and quite rich."

She paused and looked up at me, the glint becoming brighter.

"We're not just bored, Carlin, we have no sense of self-purpose. Ask any child what they want to do, it'll be 'I don't know' or a simple 'Whatever my parents tell me to do' which in itself is pretty damn sad. Wouldn't you say?"

She didn't give me a chance to respond, but returned to her nails, drawing in a deep breathe.

"We're not just bored, self-purpose'less, but we..."

She motioned in the humid air around us.

"...also want to re-shape our world. This world."

This statement gave me pause. Reshape what? She must have seen the questions already brewing, but she only threw her head back and laughed.

"There's all sorts of things wrong with this world, with this place, with this place full of Angels. The banks...the churches, the temples, the synagogues...faith, commuting, it's all so..._boring!_"

"So what you're saying is...you formed this group to destroy our lives and our culture?"

She laughed loudly again.

"Exactly, Carlin, that's exactly what we're shooting for. Banks keep us cinched up by the balls all the time, debts, credit cards, loans, mortgages. Those fucking organized religions, telling people what to do, what to eat, how to eat, what to think, how to think, who they should and shouldn't hang out with. It's all fucking shit! And you know that, I know you're bored, I know you're jaded, I know you don't care, if I were to take this knife and drive it right into your fucking breast-bone and through your heart, you wouldn't care!"

I paused. No amount of background checking could have proven that. She had thought about me. She had thought about me long and often.

"You just don't care...Spencer."

My head shot up, and the dark brown eyes were waiting for me. I felt a falling feeling then. The first of my falling feelings with Tattoo Girl. The very first of many. She stood up and went behind me once again, undoing the robes I hadn't really noticed had held me.

"You just don't care Spencer, and to be honest, I didn't really either. I found other people like me. Bored. Jaded. Hateful people. Spiteful people. But all of that just bonded us together. That's why we're here right now, me and you. You're bored and jaded. But you refuse to acknowledge something that can break it."

I stretched my arms above my head, all the things she spoke rang true, but I was just so used to fighting, I couldn't give into this answer to my problems. Not yet anyways. I stood and turned to her. The light that shined was flickering now. She had lost this round.

"Show me that you can make a real difference, not just explosions and dead bodies, and maybe we'll talk about promoting me."

I left the way I had been carried in earlier, the air thick with sweat and moisture. I was at the entrance to the dining room when I felt a strong hand on my wrist. I turned and saw Tattoo Girl there, holding a brown paper bag. She thrust it forward, he expression remaining blank.

"Best Chinese food this side of LA. It's got plenty of meat in there, I know you broke your vegetarian crap a while ago. Don't forget about the notebook."

I walked through the dining room and out, down the street, and on my way home, weighed down with more food that I had no business eating, and more thoughts weighing me down heavier than the air around me. I found myself in that similar situation, torn between running back to Tattoo Girl and the gang, and running scared and alone home. I hoped this wouldn't become a routine.


	8. And I Dont Have to Love a Thing too Much

--this chapter is dedicated to my immortal muse. She may not sing for me any longer, but she's still as beautiful as the day I met her. And she will always, always inspire me to great things.

--Articles--

from former Police Chief of Los Angeles, Patrick Kennedy's hard-drive, after the crash of the World Wide Internet and American Telephone systems Addressed as from the personal computer of now deceased LA mayor, Martin Bloom .::

Pat, I'm going to say this once, and only once. If you and your boys do not find these little pricks soon, and I mean within-the-next-week soon, then I will personally come down to that shit-hole of an office you call home and ram my boot down your fucking throat, out your ass, and beat you with that piece of tin you call a badge. I want this situation taken care of, I don't care how, or when, or how many people die, I want it done soon Pat, the Pentagon is breathing down my fucking neck, my balls feel like lead, and I haven't been getting sleep for the past month. Get those pricks, and get them NOW Patrick.

--Martin.

Martial Law has only ever been imposed in the United States, a handful of times. And, considering on who you ask, they may say it just never happened, and rather, the government only had a terse talk with the offenders, and whatever may have happened, was for the greater good. Martial law imposed on the entirety of the United States has only been enacted twice, however. Once, was in response to a war which had to do with Civil Rights, and was revoked three years later, and the other was the doing of another country in response to a small event that occurred in a Boston harbor with ships filled with tea. Both were finished and over with relatively quickly (no more than five years if I'm not mistaken), and though both affected US history at one point or another, none affected the history of the world quite like the one imposed in later 2009. It initially was enforced only in the city of LA and several other "troubled" hotspots around the city. The contained martial law applied to any and all who were residents, visitors, or tourists, and applied for however long the stay was. Regardless of whether it was an hour, or a weekend, all the rules applied, to inside and outsiders of Los Angeles. You'd think that with basically a revoke of all "God given rights", the peoples of Los Angeles weren't very concerned about their inalienable rights. The only people who seemed truly enraged were the teenagers, the young adults. In another word;

_We_ were the upset ones. And upset Warriors meant things could only become worse.

I didn't see Tattoo or any of her cronies for a week or so, but when I finally caught glances of them milling about in sometimes crowded, sometimes desolate settings, they were always tense, and looked spring loaded. I took it that the situation was worsening. Then the tepid whispers began to trickle in. Small, at first, but they began building on top of each other. And the more wild the rumors became, the more of them I spotted around. Up to this in our history lesson, gangs opposite of the Warriors were few and very scattered. No one could ever possibly hope to emulate the rigidity and exactness with which the Warriors operated under. But just because the system could never be copied, the purpose, and the idea, that could be easily done. And if there's one thing teenagers have, it's all the time in the world for our empty dreams of glory and grandeur. Because to ourselves, we are the shining light of a doomed world, and we're always in the right for the greater good.

After martial law reared its many faceted head at us in November, it was simply the catalyst for change among us. The warriors were based out of our school, King, and several other inside the district. But, outside of the district, gangs began forming, some by district, some by race, gender, background, even a small band of "equality terrorists" were formed. You had to be obviously gay in order to join the gang. We may have ordered the wholesale slaughter of them. The biggest, and perhaps most viable threat to what we were trying to do among ourselves was a gang on the opposite side of town. Justice, is what they called themselves. While we may have killed people, we did it under the protocols, rules, forms, and slips that we operated under. Justice merely took lives when the taking looked good. Whether it was a gang fight, or just a street-side brawl, Justice was there, and they killed everyone not tattooed property of the gang. There were even small whispers that Justice was sanctioned and endorsed by the government. This, of course, would never sit, could never sit well with the Warriors. So, on the twelfth of November, I opened my locker to a blankly addressed envelope, and inside, neatly typed, and in all probability printed out at the school's computer. It followed as;

--All registered members of the Warriors are to report to the specified meeting place at two in the morning. Updated rosters of all registered and un-registered's have been handed to your superiors. We will excuse all liasons and breach of contracts that have occurred as long as attendance to this meeting is ignored. All registered's will be expected to meet at two, failure to comply will result in removal.

Meeting Subject Matter: Justice. --

To say that I was surprised at being invited would be a lie. I did, however, not know where the designated meeting spot was. This became an item of concern, until I removed my math text book, and a small slip of paper, with small, loopy, and cramped writing. On it, just an address.

-Hebrew National meat-packing plant, warehouse 13. Don't be late Carlin.-

Surprisingly enough, I was right on time pulling up to warehouse 13. We were so secretive, we even had access to underground parking, and a traffic guard to direct us to our parking squares. I was impressed with that number. They closed the doors at 2:05, and wouldn't let a soul in or out until the objective to the meeting was addressed, and taken care of. Even though the rules governing the warriors have really done some 180's now, I still respect the old code concerning meetings, 'if you were there, it never really happened'. But, the basic summation of the meeting was that with martial law being what it was, it was a very risky thing to do to start an all out gang war between Justice and the Warriors. It was also decided that just subtle sabotage wasn't enough either, we had to do something that would get the message across, but not drag the government into it. There was a battalion of National Guards stationed just minutes from my house, so I understood the obvious need for secrecy.

It was drawing to five in the morning, and still no solution had been reached, and the doors had not been touched for three hours. I could feel the impatience in the room, but no one dared raise a voice or a hand to suggest a bathroom break. All in all, gathered in that huge warehouse, stripped bare of any machinery or tools, almost three thousand teenagers and young adults were crammed into that room. Some were standing, some were sitting, others were pushed into corners and sat on laps of others. The sweat and heat was rolling off in monumental waves, the moisture was virtually tropical rainforest in there, and on top of that sweaty smell and feel, the low simmering of blood was layered on top of it all, the twinge and bite of it in the air gave it somewhat of a crisp taste and feel, both to my skin, and my taste-buds. Almost everyone in that room that night was injured in one way or another, and the wheelchairs had to be left at the door in order to make room for the rest of us invalids.

Finally, at around five thirty or so in the morning, we reached a decision. A man that was confined to a wheelchair (whispers around me declared he'd be bound to it forever, it was a nasty..."skiing accident."), spoke up, but even to me, surrounded by yelling and cursing burly men and women, his voice cut clear through to me, and right into my head. Tattoo heard him, and raised her hands for silence. The room fell silent with an audible hush from the back to the front. She motioned for him to speak again.

"We could bring it to them."

No one said anything for a long time. You could literally hear the collective groaning gears and cogs springing to life after what may have been years of fighting and living and dying by instincts. Finally, I saw a lone figure pop up from the back of the room. The light hit them just right as to shroud the entire face in darkness, leaving only a person clad in ripped jeans and an old Led Zepplin t-shirt to glance at.

"Well...they have that mall...by them, uhmm...a Points Square or something."

It was a girl, the dirty, ripped, and baggy clothes had hidden the fact she possessed any actual shape or curves to speak of. I looked back up, in unison with the entire gathering, to see Tattoo girl's eyes shining. Whoever that girl was, she was something special. I felt a pang of jealousy run through me at that look, because I knew that girl looked back at her the same damn way. All I saw (or perhaps didn't see) was an imperceptible nod. The doors were unlocked, the guards posted, weapons returned, valets fetched cars, and the gathering of three, perhaps four thousand souls was cleared out in under twenty minutes. I was left on the sidewalk, beside my mother's Jaguar, a shadow watching me from the darkness. There was a quick hand raised in recognition before another shadow joined the single one. I saw hands clasp, and they seemed to bond right in front of my eyes. The now Siamese twin shadow melted back into the night, and I sighed and climbed into the car. If I were to tell you that I wasn't jealous in the least that Tattoo had a girlfriend, who I found was quite serious, running on two years, I'd be telling a pretty big damned lie.


End file.
